by Conrad Mason
Once or twice he had a funny feeling that someone was watching him.
He walked back down Mer Way and into the Marlinspike Quarter, aiming for the street that his parents had lived on. He didn’t know why. There would be a new family living there now, of course, in the house with the green front door. But before he got there he ran into a gang of goblin boys who were bigger and older than him, and laughed at his mottled skin, and chased him for three or four streets before giving up, shouting after him that mongrels weren’t welcome down their way.
What would his father have done? Grubb didn’t know. He could barely even remember his face.
He ducked into a side street, slumped down against a wall, and brought out the black velvet package, peering at it and trying to guess what might be inside. A dragon’s tooth, perhaps, or a bar of zephyrum. It had to be something valuable—otherwise why would it be wrapped up like that? And why would the ginger-haired man want to steal it? He toyed with the idea of opening the package, but even though he badly wanted to know what was inside, he decided against it. For some reason, he felt as if Captain Clagg wouldn’t want him to.
Anyway, it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that he was going to take it back to its owner. At the Grand Party, tonight. Captain Clagg had said he would be there. Grubb would find him and return the package, and in his gratitude, the captain would take him on and give him a place on board the Sharkbane. Then maybe, maybe, everything would be all right.
Of course, finding one particular person among the crowds at the party was going to be about as easy as finding one particular weevil in Mr. Lightly’s pantry. But there was always a chance that he’d be lucky. He felt like it was about time for a bit of luck to come his way.
And at least now, he had a plan.
He scrambled to his feet, thrust the package into his belt, and headed back toward Mer Way, feeling hopeful for the first time since he’d left the Legless Mermaid.
The afternoon wore on and became dusk, and the streets began to fill with Fayters in their finest clothes, ready for the Grand Party. Grubb wandered among them, waist-height to most of the crowd, one hand clenched around the black velvet package. He longed for the hour when the festivities would begin.
But as the shadows lengthened and the streets grew darker, he began to worry. Mr. Lightly would be at the party too, wigless, in his golden jacket and red waistcoat. He might have put the word out that his mongrel had gone missing. What if Grubb was spotted and taken back to the Legless Mermaid?
He had just turned back onto Mer Way for what felt like the hundredth time when someone barged into him from behind, sending him stumbling over the cobblestones.
“Watch where you’re going,” slurred the stranger, barely stopping to look at him. It was a young imp, dressed up to the nines. He wore a powdered wig and tricorne hat, a red satin coat, a clean white shirt and breeches, and a pair of large-heeled silver shoes that gave him a good few extra inches in height. He looked just like a fancy gentleman, except that his big, round eyes were crossed and he was having difficulty walking in a straight line. The bottle he was swigging from clearly wasn’t helping.
An idea popped into Grubb’s head. Take away the heels, and the imp was smaller than an adult goblin. Probably no bigger than a mongrel boy. He took a deep breath and curled his fingers tighter around the package.
This was it. A bit of luck, at last …
Grubb waited until the stranger was a good ten paces away, then began to follow, as surreptitiously as he could. It wasn’t hard. Years of avoiding Mr. Lightly’s attention had made him good at hiding in the shadows. Then again, he probably could have been a fire-breathing dragon and the imp wouldn’t have noticed. There was no way he was going to get to the party in that state.
As he tottered along, the imp sang happily to himself:
Oh, I knew a fair young impish lass as fair as fair could be,
Dum dum de dum dum, asked her to marry me …
Grubb followed through lanes and backstreets until, at last, the imp staggered to a halt in a deserted alleyway. He raised the bottle to his lips, promptly overbalanced, and fell backward, his tricorne toppling onto the cobblestones. For a few moments he lay there on the ground, giggling. Then he muttered something revolting about someone called Betsey and rolled over onto his side, smacking his lips. Ten seconds later, he was snoring heavily, cradling the bottle to his chest like a newborn baby.
Grubb crept closer, half expecting the imp to open his eyes. Nothing. He was out cold. Trying not to breathe in the stench of firewater, Grubb prized the sleeper’s pink fingers away from the bottle, spread his arms out wide, and removed the red satin coat.
He held it up to himself and breathed a sigh of relief. It was perfect.
First he took off his own coat and shirt, leaving them in a pile on the ground with Captain Clagg’s package placed carefully on top. Then, keeping one eye on the package, he removed the imp’s shirt and pulled it on himself. Last of all, he put on the wig and the red jacket.
The new clothing felt tight and stiff, and when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a puddle he barely recognized himself. He looked just like a rich merchant’s boy. Even if Mr. Lightly saw him at the party, he probably wouldn’t know who he was looking at.
Grubb took the imp by the arms and hauled him to the side of the alley, where he’d be less likely to be robbed by the first gang of drunkards who came this way. He would leave his own shirt and coat. That way, at least the imp would have something to wear when he woke up.
There was a movement in the shadows opposite.
Grubb let the imp slump and hurried back to stand guard over the package and his bundle of clothes. Was he seeing things? After everything that had happened so far today, it would be no big surprise if he’d gone crazy. No, it was probably just a rat. He was probably just being stupid. He adjusted his wig and smoothed out his new jacket.
Something darted out of the shadows toward him.
He leaped forward, but not fast enough. A small, dark blur tore between his legs and came to a halt, silhouetted in the center of the alley.
It was a ginger cat, and in its mouth it held the black velvet package.
Maybe he had gone crazy after all.
The cat was staring straight at him, and a strange thought came into his head—he felt like a mouse, looking into the yellow eyes of … well … of a cat.
The cat dropped the package between its front paws.
“Get lost, mongrel,” it said.
It was dark in the alleyway, and the bangs and crackles of fireworks from the Grand Party sounded muffled and distant as the watchmen padded through the shadows.
For the hundredth time, Tabitha checked that her throwing knives were all in place in the bandolier and glanced over her shoulder. She could just make out the hulking troll shapes of the Bootle brothers. Behind them she caught the glint of Hal’s spectacles and Old Jon’s tall, thin figure bringing up the rear. Tonight they had exchanged their usual blue jackets for garish party clothes, but every one of them bore the shark tattoo of the Watch, and every one of them was armed. Every one except Hal, of course. Hal didn’t need a weapon to defend himself.
Ahead of her strode Newton, tall and silent, his combat staff folded in three and hidden beneath a purple satin coat.
Tabitha’s whole body was buzzing with excitement, but she forced herself to look as serious as possible. This had to go well. It was her chance to show Newton what she could do, at last.
A smuggler. They were going to catch a real, proper, possibly extremely dangerous smuggler.
She couldn’t wait.
Thalin Square was deserted, except for a few small groups making their way to the Grand Party on the quayside. The vast marble town hall stood cold and empty. A breeze stirred a few scraps of rubbish over the cobblestones. Even the buskers were nowhere to be seen.
Newton stopped and gave a signal, and they all clustered around at the foot of the plinth that stood in the center of th
e square. The bronze statue towering above them showed Thalin the Navigator—a rugged, handsome human, dressed in a simple tunic, long hair flying dramatically in the wind. His sword was raised, ready to stab down at his foe, the Maw. The sea demon was almost comical; a winding serpent that coiled round Thalin’s leg trying to bite his arm. Tabitha imagined the real thing would have been less … ridiculous. If it had ever even existed.
“So, everyone clear?” said Newton. “Keep it quiet. No heroics, no showing off, no nothing.” He looked sternly at the towering Bootle brothers. Both of them tried to look innocent, and failed. “Quiet” wasn’t usually their style.
“Aye, Captain.”
“Right y’are.”
“Good. Hal, you’re with me. Once we’re on board the Wraith’s Revenge, we’ll head for the hold, intercept the cargo handover, and arrest Phineus Clagg and his customer, whoever that is. The rest of you, stay on the upper decks and keep an eye out for Clagg or his crew. Tabs, you’re lookout. Understood?”
Tabitha felt like he’d tipped a bucket of bilge over her head.
Lookout?
She snorted in disgust. After all the excitement, she was going to be lookout again?
Newton noticed.
“Promise you’ll stay out of trouble, Tabs. And keep those knives out of sight.”
She grunted and began to take off her jacket to rearrange the bandolier of throwing knives underneath. Her cheeks were burning. It wasn’t fair, his speaking to her like that in front of everyone. She had the same tattoo as them, didn’t she? It wasn’t like she was actually his daughter. So what did she have to do to get him to treat her like a real person?
“Good plan, Newt,” Paddy was saying. “And by the way, it’s good to see you lot looking smart for a change.”
“I’m not sure about this green though,” said Frank, frowning down at his jacket. “I reckon I’d suit a red one better. You know, with some nice long tails and maybe some fancy gold bits? Hey, Hal, can you magic me something like that?”
Hal sighed and pushed his glasses up his nose.
“I don’t expect you to fully appreciate the intricacies of my craft, but please … ‘Magic me something like that’?”
Paddy chuckled and thumped his brother on the arm.
“Don’t worry, Frank, it wouldn’t make any difference. Ain’t no jacket in all the Old World that’ll make our mugs any less ugly.”
Five minutes later, they were making their way through the crowds on the harbor front. Rockets burst high above the bay, staining the night sky with reds, blues, and greens, which reflected off the black water below. The Grand Party had begun.
Tabitha’s ears filled with chatter, laughter, and music, and her mouth watered at the scent of barbecued meat and fish. The quayside was decked out with bunting, paper chains, and colored lanterns, and rammed with Fayters laughing, singing, and jostling one another. Fire-eaters, jugglers, and contortionists competed for attention and tips, but most Fayters were ignoring them, occupied with the more serious business of eating and drinking. A tiny, giggling elf girl dodged around Tabitha’s legs, using them as cover from an even tinier goblin boy chasing after her. Tabitha grinned in spite of herself.
As she looked up, she noticed a pair of humans staring at her and whispering to each other. The men were dressed in black jackets and tricorne hats and carried muskets slung over their shoulders. She scowled at them, which made them flinch and look away, pretending they hadn’t just been talking about her. Blackcoats. They were about as much use as a rubber cutlass.
She scanned the crowd and spotted several more of the black-coated militiamen, moving among the crowds with muskets and crossbows, trying to look tough and make sure no one stepped out of line.
Newton had seen them too. He gave a hand signal, and the watchmen split up and fanned out through the crowd to board dinghies, just like they’d discussed. If they were seen together the blackcoats might get nervous, and according to Newton it was always best to work quietly. “Incognito,” as Hal put it. That was why Slik hadn’t been allowed to come tonight. You just couldn’t trust him to stay quiet for long enough.
Tabitha’s boat was manned by a cheery-looking dwarf with a short blond beard and a red handkerchief knotted round his head. He gave her a wink as she climbed in.
“Wraith’s Revenge?” she asked.
“Aye.”
Tabitha sat next to a pair of scrawny goblin sailors. The dwarf sang a sea shanty in a deep, warbling voice as they pulled out into the harbor, while the goblins swigged from a flagon, competing to tell the rudest jokes they could think of and snorting with laughter.
Clusters of lights glimmered all around them—flotillas of ships and barges, lashed together for the occasion and loaded with revelers. The dinghy was heading for the largest, made up of three vast warships—the Behemoth, the Fighting Fury, and the Wraith’s Revenge. Music drifted over the water, louder and louder, the closer they came.
On board, the party was even more raucous than it had been on the quayside. Musicians played on the forecastle, sawing away at fiddles and pumping squeeze-boxes. Below them, the decks bounced under the weight of breathless revelers, bobbing up and down to the jigs and reels.
Tabitha stepped over the gunwale, glancing back across the water. Newton’s boat hadn’t arrived yet. That meant she had a bit of time to investigate before she got stuck being the lookout. With luck, she might even find Phineus Clagg before the other watchmen got on board.
She set off, edging around the makeshift dance floor toward a set of tables laden with food. There were saffron cakes with cream filling, sugared nuts and glazed fruits, sweet biscuits from the town’s confectioners, and rich shokel buns, imported from the New World and decorated with golden sugar paper bearing the Cockatrice Company’s purple emblem—a little reminder of who was paying for the party. Tabitha grabbed a slice of cake and bit into it. Soft red icing oozed out, and crumbs scattered onto the deck. It was delicious.
Munching on her cake, she climbed the stairs to the poop deck and joined a small crowd gathered around a local fisherman, One-hand Wallis, who was looking after the ship’s supply of fireworks.
“This here, ladies and gents, is the firework to end all fireworks!” he crowed, pointing to an enormous, multicolored rocket. “Wait till you see this one: it’s the shark’s teeth. It’ll blow your breeches off, and no mistake!”
“What’s it look like then?” someone called out.
Wallis tapped his nose theatrically. “Ah now, well, that’d be telling, wouldn’t it? You’ll know it when you see it though, that’s for sure. The Flaming Nancy, I call it. Saving this one for later—for the grand finale. Just you wait.”
Tabitha felt a heavy hand fall on her shoulder and looked up to see Frank’s big, green, grinning face.
“Hello there, young missy. Don’t you have a job to do?”
She rolled her eyes and ducked away from him, stuffing the rest of the cake into her mouth. Well, if she wasn’t allowed to hunt for Clagg herself, at least she’d be the best lookout the Demon’s Watch had ever had. She headed for the railings at the front of the poop deck, where she had a good view over the whole ship.
There was a lot to see, besides the dancers. Clowns, grog vendors, games … Someone had even set up a target for a knife-throwing contest. Muscled sailors pushed to have a go, and their tattooed arms sent blade after blade thudding into the painted target. Tabitha wished she could join in and show them how it was done. There was no way she’d lose.
She pushed the thought from her mind and scanned over the heads of the partygoers, picking out the few blackcoats who were on board. They seemed to be busy enjoying themselves, which meant they wouldn’t be causing the Demon’s Watch any trouble. Good.
Next, she looked for the other watchmen. Old Jon was on the fo’c’sle, smoking as usual, nodding along as another old elf spoke rapidly into his ear. There was Paddy nearby, chatting with an off-duty fiddle player. He caught her eye and gave her a wink. Last,
she spotted Hal’s floppy brown hair and Newton’s shaven head, bobbing up and down as they threaded through the crowd, toward the door that led belowdecks.
Everything was going perfectly according to plan. Tabitha sighed and slumped over the railing. Looked like it was going to be another boring—
Wait.
There was another figure down there, a few steps behind Hal. A human-size figure, cloaked in gray and hooded. A figure moving slowly but with purpose. Following.
Tabitha leaned forward, gripping the railing hard. Whoever it was hadn’t bothered to dress up but had gone to the trouble of hiding their face. That was very, very suspicious. Phineus Clagg? Or whoever Phineus Clagg was due to meet.
She watched, her heart pounding, as the gray-hooded person opened the door that Newton and Hal had just gone through and disappeared into the darkness beyond.
This was it! This was her chance. She was the lookout, wasn’t she? So she was supposed to be looking out for things. Newt hadn’t told her what to do if she saw something, so that meant it was up to her. Probably. Or if not, it was his own fault for not being clear enough.
She shoved her way back through the crowds and down the stairs, heading for the doorway, checking she still had her knives. Then she pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The noises of the party grew faint as she climbed down wooden steps into the belly of the Wraith’s Revenge. Gradually, the chatter and music were replaced by the long, eerie groans of the ship itself, rocking gently in the waves. Tabitha forced herself to breathe deeply, slow and regular. She moved silently, listening as hard as she could, but hearing no one.
She was two decks down, and the distant thud of dancing feet mingled with the sounds of creaking timbers and lapping waves. It was cold, and the air was damp and heavy with the scent of rotten wood. She climbed down the final flight of steps to the hold, reaching inside her jacket and pulling out a slender knife, peering into the shadows.
